Today I am sitting in a caf� (and bar) in Vaison-la-Romaine, in the Provence region of France, nursing my espresso.  

No, wait... that was last week.  

It just sounds sexier than saying, "Today I'm looking out my window at a gloomy winter sky, here in the Pacific Northwest, with a Thesaurus in hand hoping for a gushing synonym for gray." 

Welcome home. Home for me is always awaited and valued, but still elicits a bout of scotoma (selective vision), where we end up comparing the life we have, for the "life we deserve" (the actual wording for a recent advertised e-course).  

My favorite part of my recent France trip was visiting family run wineries, spending time with the owner / wine-maker, with the permission to linger, sensing a comfort grounded in story and connection. Said one (when we asked him about being a small winery--in a world where big is everything), "I am glad. I am not alone. I work with family." (Referring to his son and three daughters.)

And it makes me wonder about this mental sleight of hand we use, thinking about the life we are destined for, as somehow different (or better) from the life we now we live. 

A famous sage passes through the man's village. The man asks the sage to teach him the art of meditation. The sage agrees. He tells the man, "Withdraw from the world. Mediate every day in the specific way I will teach you. Do not waver and you will attain enlightenment."  

The earnest man follows the sage's instructions to the letter. Time passes--and no enlightenment. Two years, five, ten, twenty pass. 

It happens that the sage once again passes through the man's village. The man seeks him out, grumbling that despite his best intentions and devotion and diligent efforts, he does not achieve enlightenment. "Why?"  

The sage asks, "What type of meditation did I teach you?" 

The man tells him.  

The sage says, "Oh, what a terrible mistake I made! That is not the right meditation for you. You should have done another kind altogether. Too bad, for now it is too late." 

Disconsolate, the man returns to his cave. Staking his life on the sage's instructions, and now believing he is without hope, the man abandons all his wishes and efforts and need to control his road to enlightenment. He does not know what to do. So, he does what he knows best: he begins meditating. And in a short while, much to his astonishment, his confusion begins to dissolve, and his inner world comes to life. A weight falls away and he feels lighter, and regenerated. When he walks out of the cave, the sky is bluer, the snow capped mountains whiter, and the world around him more vivid.  

There is no doubt that all too often, our efforts--to succeed or achieve or attain--get in the way of our living. It brings to mind my favorite Robert Capon quote, "We live life like ill-taught piano students. So inculcated with the flub that will get us in dutch, we don't hear the music, we only play the right notes."  

I understand. I was weaned on a spirituality that predicated itself on artifice. In other words, the importance is placed upon appearance, rather that just being. (It was vital to "look spiritual." Which begs the question, "What do spiritual people look like?" As a boy, I always thought the "spiritual people" looked as if some part of their clothing was a size too small.) 

What is it we are holding on to--so rigid, so firm, white-knuckled in our determination? 

At some point, we've got to breathe. 

Just breathe. 

Without realizing it (and after the sage's disheartening news), the man in the story "let go." 

He let go of the need to see life as a problem to be solved. 

He let go of the need to have the correct answers (or experiences) for his "enlightenment." 

He let go of the need to see his spiritual life in terms of a formula.
He let go of the restraints that come from public opinion.

Without realizing it, he took Leonard Cohen's advice. He abandoned his "masterpiece"--the perception of what he needed to accomplish, or how he needed to appear, or what he needed to feel--in order to allow himself to sink down into this life, this moment, even with all of its uncertainty and insecurity.  

For the first many years, meditation or prayer was a requirement or compulsion. In his emptiness, meditation and prayer was an offering of thanks, freely given, and without constraint. True spiritual enlightenment, it seems, happens when you are not trying to impress anyone, or score any points with heavenly bookkeepers.   

It sounds easy doesn't it?  

But here's the deal: My best intentions to play the right notes can fabricate an armor that keeps me from the vividness of life--whether it be to pray or meditate or notice or give or mourn or dance or play or grieve or laugh or celebrate or love... or just to walk.

I never did find a good enough synonym for the gray (although I'll keep looking). Gladly, the sun has broken through. And there is enough warmth to persuade us that spring may arrive tomorrow. Daffodil shoots everywhere--up through the leaves and debris--help the ruse. So it's garden time this afternoon, turning manure into the vegetable garden beds, beginning to cut back and clean some of the perennial beds.  Enough work for the back to call a time out and request reprieve.  I'm headed to the swing under the maple, when I look up to see the sun illuminating the red-twig dogwood shrubs, 10 foot canes glowing, a bright cranberry red. It catches my breath. And I am glad to be alive.  

It is my hope that 2015 be a year of light and life for you and yours.  

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